


Ancient Languages

by GodModeSue



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Lothíriel Is Not a Princess, Modern Era, Modern Middle Earth, Modern Royalty, Rohan, Royalty, Self-indulgent fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25369135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodModeSue/pseuds/GodModeSue
Summary: At her friend Éowyn's suggestion, Gondorian commoner Lothíriel is hired to tutor the King of Rohan's ward.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

_This is too good to be real._

Lothíriel reread the email, her finger hovering reluctantly over the ‘delete’ button. If only! But she was too old to be swept away by fantasies, and she really did need to find a job. One that existed and paid actual money, since in two months time she would graduate and lose both her student stipend and subsidized housing. This was a distraction, no matter how pleasant it was to imagine herself away with the fairies. Or in this case, the Horse Lords. “Internet scammers are getting scary good, ‘Wyn. This is probably the most tempting scam email I’ve ever received.”

“What is?” called her best friend from the kitchen of their shared student flat. 

“The King of Rohan has invited me to move to Edoras to tutor his daughter. Oh, and there’s some absurd salary quoted at the bottom.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand gold Eorls, plus room, board, and a relocation allowance. A relocation allowance to move into a freaking palace. That’s a bit of a giveaway, don’t you think?”

“Ten is just an opening offer. You should press for at least twelve. And vacation.”

“At least — !” Lothíriel snorted. “Wyn, it’s obviously a scam.”

“You’re the one being offered money,” Éowyn pointed out. She moved into the living room, still holding a half-dry plate, a dish rag tossed over her shoulder. 

“Well, yeah. But the next email will probably ask me to wire a hundred Bitcoin to some rando in Edoras to set up a bank account or do a background check or something.”

“I don’t think you can wire Bitcoin.”

“I wouldn’t have any to wire even if I could.” Lothíriel shook her head firmly. “And it doesn’t matter, because the email is fake. I didn’t apply for a job. There’s no way the royal family of Rohan could possibly have my name. And why would they ask a recent graduate with no teaching experience to tutor the heir to the throne? My degree is in classical languages. I don’t even speak fluent Rohirric.”

Éowyn plopped down on the couch beside her. “Déorwyn isn’t the heir to the throne, which you would know if you knew literally anything about Rohan beyond the age of heroes. Your Rohirric is fine and will improve quickly once you’re there. And you do have teaching experience. You spent all last summer interning in Minas Tirith. Thiri, tell me. Do you want to accept?”

“There’s nothing _to_ accept.”

“But if there were? Humor me.”

For a moment, Lothíriel allowed herself to sink back into the fantasy — golden fields and cerulean skies, the smell of sweet, dry, grass. And horses, horses everywhere. As a child, Lothíriel had definitely been a horse girl. Of course there had never been money for a horse of her own, but Lothíriel had spent every minute she could volunteering at a local barn. She had grown up there — dreaming of Rohan. Specifically, the Rohan of Eorl the Young and the heroes of ages long past. Long hours were spent grooming and exercising horses who, injured in skirmishes in Near Harad, had retired from active service. In her dreams, they had become Mearás — the fabled mounts of the kings of Rohan. 

“You know I would,” she said shortly. Hearing the words, she winced. She didn’t mean to take her temper out on Éowyn. It wasn’t the other girl’s fault that some clever spammer had sent an email that accidentally tapped into her greatest fantasy. “I’m sorry. It’s just … you know how much Rohan meant to me as a child.”

“Yes,” said Éowyn, “though you’ve never explained why.”

Lothíriel wasn’t sure she could. “I was ten when the war ended. You know my parents both died, right?”

Éowyn hugged her friend close. “I know.”

“Well, when they died, I was sent to live with my aunt, Ivriniel. My brothers were all active duty, so it was the best option. But we didn’t get along. She wanted a quiet, obedient little girl, and I was … not that. We fought endlessly. My fantasy was that I would run away to Rohan and become a shieldmaiden. I actually did run away once, but I barely made it out of Dol Amroth before I was caught and returned home. And as you can see, I never did become a shieldmaiden. Which is probably for the best. My hand-eye coordination is shit.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” said Éowyn. “There’s a reason I don’t play video games with you.”

Lothíriel shot her a grumpy glare, but the statuesque blonde only laughed. “I’m going to delete the email.”

“No, don’t,” said Éowyn, suddenly serious. “Thiri, I have a confession to make. The invitation is real. I know, because it was my idea.”

 _Sorry, what?_ Lothíriel shook her head blankly. “Your idea?” 

“Yes. Well, not to get Déorwyn a tutor. But to ask you. She’s Éomer’s ward, by the way, not his daughter or heir. He doesn’t have any children.”

The pieces were still not clicking into place.. “Okay …”

“My brother doesn’t trust a lot of people. After the last disaster, he didn’t want to hire an outsider at all. But there aren’t a lot of Eorlingas who can speak Westron, let alone Sindarin, let alone Haradic, let alone teach all three. So I gave him your name.”

“Okay …”

“So you’ll do it?”

“Do what?”

“Take the job!”

“Éowyn, what — wait. Who are you?” 

Éowyn shrugged. “Who I’ve always been. You knew I was from the Riddermark. I might just have left out some … minor details.”

“Like your brother?”

“Like my brother.” 

It clicked. Lothíriel’s head spun, but she didn’t doubt Éowyn for a second. Her friend was not inclined to practical jokes. “Your brother is the king.”

Éowyn’s mouth curved into an apologetic smile. “That is what he tells me whenever he knows he’s losing an argument.”

“You’re really a princess?” Lothíriel took in her friend’s haphazard bun, ratty collegiate tee, and the wet dish towel slung over her shoulder. She tried to imagine the blonde in the kind of ethereal silks and delicate jewels Queen Arwen wore. It didn’t compute. 

Éowyn followed her gaze with a grin. “An underwhelming one, I guess. But yeah, all my life. Is what it is. Can’t do shit about it.”

Lothíriel sighed. “At least you do your share of the dishes.”

“You’re not angry?”

“I’m too shook to be angry. You’re seriously a _princess_?”

“It doesn’t mean what you think it means, Thiri. I’m just the king’s sister. A private citizen. I don’t have any official role of my own. No one bows to me, I don’t wear a crown, and I live my life basically how I choose.”

“But your brother is the king.” A horrifying thought occurred to Lothíriel. “Wyn, I’ve _met_ your brother!”

Éowyn’s eyes twinkled. “So you have.”

“But his name is Léod.”

“Not quite. Léod was our ancestor, the father of Eorl the Young, first king of the Riddermark. It’s a name Éomer uses to travel incognito.”

“He slept on our couch!”

“So he did.”

“A _king_ slept on our couch.”

“Actually, he wasn’t king then.” Éowyn hesitated. “Thíri — you might want to read up on our recent history a bit before you go. I know you’re not big on current events, but you need at least a rough idea.”

“We went … Wyn! We went _clubbing_!”

“I wasn’t sure how much of that night you remembered.” 

Enough to be quite sure she did not care to remember the rest. “I want to die,” Lothíriel whimpered.

“It can’t be that bad,” Éowyn reasoned. “As I recall, you two got on rather well.”

“But then I … he …”

Éowyn’s eyebrows rose. “As his sister, I’m not sure I want to hear the end of that sentence. Anyway, he likes you enough to trust you with Déorwyn. Will you take the job? It would mean a lot to him. And to me. And to Déorwyn. Béma knows that girl could use some stability.”

“I don’t know …” But she wanted to. Badly. “Oh, what the hell.”

Éowyn squealed. “Oh, wonderful! But don’t sign anything before I see it. Ten thousand is just insulting.”

“Ten thousand is more than enough.” 

“Not hardly. I’m going to enjoy negotiating this. And winning.”

Lothíriel shook her head. “As long as you’re happy.”

Éowyn’s answering smile was not comforting at all. 


	2. Chapter 2

One month later, Lothíriel had packed up the last of her belongings and was ready to say goodbye to her home of the last three and a half years. Éowyn, who had accepted a fellowship in Minas Tirith, would be staying through the end of the summer, so Lothíriel was spared the final cleanout. She sat down on the stripped bed — no longer hers — and thought about how, for the first time in many, many years, she was sorry to be leaving. It was a testament to how good her time with Éowyn had been. They had met the first day of freshman year, when they had shared a cramped little dorm room. They quickly became friends, and only six months later moved into their first apartment. 

No one except Éowyn knew the truth of why Lothíriel was moving to Rohan. In fact, she had signed a number of confidentiality agreements to that effect. She had told her friends and family that she was taking a year to work as an au pair and tutor, which was true enough, but entirely insufficient when considering that her charge was the King of Rohan’s ward, and that she would be living in the palace itself. Éowyn’s royal identity also remained a secret to all but Lothíriel. Having survived four years of university without the press catching on to her identity, she had every intention of maintaining that streak. How exactly Éowyn had managed it was still something of a mystery to Lothíriel, but she chalked it up to good timing — they had started university the same year the war was won and King Elessar was crowned, and the Gondorian press had more exciting things to obsess over than the personal life of a foreign princess — and the press’s prejudice. Unfortunately, there were still parts of Gondor that looked down on Rohan as an uncivilized Northern backwater. Until relatively recently, Rohan had even lacked a written language of its own. Perhaps a Gondorian university was simply the last place anyone expected to see a Rohirric princess. 

“Thíri, your brother’s outside,” called Éowyn from the living room.

“Tell him I’ll be down in a second.”

“No, he’s coming up. Looks like he has a friend with him.”

A friend? Surely not — “Faramir!” Lothíriel shrieked as the door opened. She dashed across the living room and flung herself at him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“Ooph! And ruin the surprise?” Grinning, her cousin set her down. “You look well, little sister.”

“No one’s ever that excited to see me,” grumped the man behind him. Her oldest brother, Elphir. 

“Don’t be silly, of course I’m excited to see you.” Lothíriel beamed. “I’m only sorry ‘Rothos and Chiri couldn’t make it. Éowyn, you’ve met Elphir, haven’t you?”

“Last Mettare.”

“And this is Faramir. I don’t usually see him, since he’s always off ranging in Ithilien.”

“Military, huh?” asked Éowyn. She shot him an appraising look.

“A family profession,” he said, returning her gaze with interest. If his happened to dip a little lower than usual, she didn’t seem to mind. 

Lothíriel followed their interaction with undisguised glee. It would be a pity to leave them at the airport. If only there were more time for meddling! “You know, Faramir’s quite impressive, not that he’ll tell you about it.”

"The youngest captain in a century,” added Elphir, grinning. Then he took pity on his embarrassed cousin: “We’d better get the car loaded. Can’t have Thíri miss her flight.”

Faramir hoisted Lothíriel’s duffle into the air and shook it skeptically. “Is this really all you’ve got?”

“Plus my backpack.” 

Elphir groaned. “Thíri, they have real winters there. Tell me you at least packed a winter coat.”

“I don’t own a winter coat.” It had never been necessary in mild, seaside Dol Amroth, where winter differed from summer only by a slight drop in temperature and the availability of oranges. 

“There are plenty of good shops in Édoras,” Éowyn hastened to assure them. “Plus, I’ve written ahead and had some of my things set aside for Thíri. She won’t freeze.”

“You’re from Edoras?” said Faramir. His linguist’s ears had pricked up. “From your accent, I would have guessed the Eastmark.”

Éowyn nodded with real approval. “Good ear! Most Gondorians can’t tell the difference. I was born in Aldburg, but I moved to Edoras when I was nine or ten. My brother works there now.”

“Oh? What’s he do?”

“Something administrative,” she deflected smoothly. “I’ve never really asked.”

“We should be off,” said Elphir. He took a nervous look at his watch. Lothíriel suppressed a smile. Her eldest brother was the family worrier: there was no flight that he didn’t arrive two hours early for. 

Dol Amroth shared an airport with nearby Edhellond. The drive took them some twenty minutes outside the city bounds. Lothíriel used the opportunity to interrogate Faramir about events in Minas Tirith. “So you’ve seen the new Queen?”

“Well, a handful of times. She patronizes the Wounded Warrior Program” — this was Faramir’s pet project, an initiative to support rangers injured in service — “so I’ve seen her at a few banquets and such.” 

“And what’s she like?”

“Very graceful. Very beautiful.” Faramir shrugged. “Very queenly, I suppose.”

“A bit uncanny, though,” added Elphir. “Many think the King should have married a Gondorian woman. Especially being a foreigner himself.”

“You can hardly call him a foreigner,” Lothíriel objected. “He’s the rightful king, descended in an unbroken line from Elros Tar-Minyataur.”

Elphir sniffed. “That doesn’t change the fact that he’s only been in Gondor four years. He should be making every effort to demonstrate that his loyalty is to us. Taking an Elvish wife did nothing to reassure his critics.”

“There’s nothing he  _ could _ do to reassure certain of those critics,” pointed out Faramir. “Steward Denethor’s closest allies will always be suspicious, no matter whose daughter he might have married.”

“He might at least have chosen a human. You know, there are those who question whether  _ he _ is human himself…”

“I had not thought Gondor so prejudiced against outsiders,” said Faramir mildly. “And only a fool would repeat those rumors. The King is Dunádan.”

“I didn’t say I believed it, only that many others do.” Elphir appealed to Éowyn next. “How would the Rohirrim react if their king were to make an elf their queen?”

“Not well,” she admitted. If it was awkward for her to talk about her brother without acknowledging him as such, she didn’t show it. “Most wish the king happiness. But … they hope that happiness will be with one of our own. The Riddermark welcomes visitors, but a queen should come from the people.”

“There! You see?” said Elphir. “It is not a matter of prejudice. It is only natural for a nation to be ruled by its own.”

“Yet the Men of the West chose the half-elven Elros Tar-Minyataur to be their king, and he shared not a drop of their blood,” said Lothíriel. Some tartness slipped into her tone: “Which, I suppose, is why his kingdom quickly faded into obscurity and his name is forgotten today.”

“That was thousands of years ago, Thíri. Today Elros Tar-Minyataur is more myth than anything else. Who knows what he was really like?”

Lothíriel shrugged. “I just think it’s a shame the Queen has been met with such animosity.”

“She’s still a queen,” said Elphir. “There must be some compensations.”

Lothíriel imagined swapping places and shuddered. “Not enough for me!”

“I don’t think you’re in danger of being crowned anytime soon,” her brother chortled, reaching over to chuck her under the chin. “Although I guess you are headed to a country with an unmarried king. Can you imagine that, Thíri, Queen of Rohan?”

Lothíriel thought it rather unkind that all three of her companions burst out laughing. 


	3. Chapter 3

Éomer had a headache. It was persistent, localized, weighed about sixty pounds, and was named Déorwyn. 

“She’s been missing how long?” he asked Éothain again.

His personal secretary’s face was carefully devoid of judgement. “Since at least noon, but possibly as early as nine. It seems you were the last to see her.”

 _Well, fuck_. Éomer knew he was to blame, having cut short their promised morning together only minutes after it began, when a diplomatic cable had arrived from the Dunnish marches. In his haste to deal with the matter, he had forgotten to assign someone to look after Déorwyn. With no tutor in residence and her interim carer taking a well-deserved day off in town, nine-year-old Déorwyn had been left alone. Again.

Éomer’s guilt must have begun to show on his face, because Éothain’s emotionless mask fell away, replaced by compassion. “We’ll find her,” the secretary assured him. “Meduseld isn’t that big. If she’s here, someone will spot her. I have security alerted throughout the grounds and town and two men on a dedicated search detail. Don’t look so panicked. This is nothing compared to what we used to get up to as boys. Remember?”

 _Well, sure, but we were_ boys _!_ Éomer almost said before the thought of Éowyn’s unimpressed response made him reconsider. “That was a different time,” he settled on lamely. 

“Sure it was,” Éothain snorted. “We were at war!” He settled into the chair opposite the king’s. “Éomer, friend, we’re at peace. A _good_ peace. I don’t take my responsibilities towards Déorwyn’s safety lightly, but physically she’s in no danger at all, except from spontaneously combusting out of boredom.”

“Or inciting her tutors to murder,” muttered Éomer.

“She’s as wild as Éowyn was. As _you_ were. Let her have some freedom.”

Éomer shook his head. “I take your point, but not today. The new tutor should be arriving any minute. I thought we could meet her together.” 

“I’m sure the tutor will thank you for the chance to unpack and settle in first, before you spring the little warg on her.”

The king sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to stem the sudden sharpness there. And the day had begun so well! “Éothain, tell me the truth. Have I done right by Déorwyn?”

His personal secretary’s split-second hesitation told Éomer everything he needed to know, and he slumped against his desk. “I was never meant for any of this — father, king, diplomat,” he complained. “‘General’, I could do just fine. But the war is over.”

“You’re a good king,” Éothain said firmly, “and Déorwyn doesn’t expect you to be her father. Just … present. To some extent.”

But there was never any time. And when they did spend time together, he was never quite sure if he was wanted. The nine-year-old girl had mastered the art of the poker face far better than he ever would, and she had showed very little emotion that morning — not when he arrived, full of promises for a day together, nor when he had been called away abruptly twenty minutes later. The only glimmer of enthusiasm he had seen was when he asked about Pretty Star, her white pony.

Éomer’s ward was no blood relation of his, but rather his cousin Theodred’s wife’s child from her first marriage. The Ring War had taken what family she had on either side, leaving her step-grandfather, Theoden King, the sole adult to whom she could claim any familial tie — not that he had been in any shape to look after a child. That had been four years ago. Then Theoden had died too, leaving both Déorwyn and the throne to Éomer.

For the first few months of his kingship, Déorwyn had been packed away to Éomer’s former household staff at Aldburg. He’d had no time to play parent as he struggled to rebuild the gutted administration and cleanse it of Wormtongue’s corrupt influence. Then came the first hard winter, when he had been forced to beg his allies for aid to keep the tiny nation from defaulting. Few knew how perilously close Rohan had come not just to default, but actual hunger, even starvation. With much of the harvest destroyed by Saruman’s troops and little foreign currency with which to import food, Éomer had faced the very real prospect of not being able to feed his people. So he had swallowed his pride and begged for help. 

Éomer actually couldn’t remember if Déorwyn had yet returned to Edoras. He had spent the entire winter in a foul mood, snapping at staff, drinking himself to sleep, haunted by memories of the Black Gate. By the following spring, he had been somewhat more settled. Déorwyn had definitely arrived by then. But he hadn’t made time for her. Not nearly enough. Instead, he had palmed her off to a succession of nannies and tutors, none of whom seemed to last more than a year. Éothain was right — Déorwyn _was_ a little warg. But Éomer also thought the tutors were rather pathetic, if they couldn’t handle one little girl. 

Hopefully the new one had a stronger constitution. 

“Notify me immediately when she’s found,” he instructed Éothain. “As for the new tutor, tell Hádis” — that was the housekeeper — “to show her to her rooms, get her settled. She can start tomorrow.” He saw no point in greeting her without Déorwyn there beside him. 

“Right-o.” The secretary saluted ironically and left.

Pushing thoughts of his ward aside, Éomer returned to the matter that had consumed his morning and was threatening to consume much more. _What the hell am I going to do with thousands of refugees?_

He had two headaches, actually. The second was located squarely behind his eyes.


End file.
